Katrina Prado - The Whore of Babylon, A Memoir

“There are mistakes on several of the vendor lists,” Carmelita says over the phone.

“What?” I say. “What do you mean mistakes?”

“Some of these purchase were in oh-one, I think. I don’t remember any of the associations having capital purchases this year. But you show that Alliance Heating and Cooling was paid five grand in March,” she says.

Carmelita is wrong, of course. Three homeowner associations out of the forty-five plus that we manage did have capital purchases. How on earth would a purchase from last year be posted to 2002? But I can’t think about that right now.

Right now I am thinking that it is nine-thirty on a Friday morning and my daughter is still missing. She never came home and the school called half an hour ago to report her absence. She has never, not once, been gone this long. I do not want to get into all of this with Carmelita.

“The payables have to go out this week. And I think you’ve used up all your PTO,” Carmelita warns.

I grit my teeth, knowing she is right. “I’ll be in the office in a couple of hours to check those accounts,” I say, my mind racing ahead as to what I need to do next.

After at last extricating myself from the phone and Carmelita’s disapproving tone, I sit for a moment in the kitchen. The refrigerator hums. A car honks in the distance. I detect traces of cold cheese soup in the air, from the dishes still piled in the sink.

The timer on the coffee maker clicks off, and the sudden noise jolts me into action. I head to Robyn’s room, my eyes taking stock. Nothing has changed since last night. Clothes are strewn across the floor. Dresser drawers stick out like tongues, and her bed is unmade. I make my way through the chaos to the dresser, scanning the surface for any evidence that might give me a clue as to where she has gone. Only the usual paraphernalia is here: barrettes, a Seventeen magazine, and a crumpled up bra. With an instinctive haste I snatch the bra from the counter and press it to my nose. Closing my eyes I am overwhelmed. Robyn’s scent, a carnation sweetness, floods my brain. I remember a day at the park when she was three or four; her running into my arms after a frightening tumble off the slide. How I had pressed her flesh close, inhaling the sweet perfume of the sweat in her hair, knowing with a luminous clarity that I would never love another human being with the same fierce abandon as I loved this child.

I clench my jaw, checking my tears. Stumbling over memory lane right now will not help my daughter. I fold the bra in half, letting the straps neatly nestle in the concave petals for cups and open her top drawer tucking the bra away. I rummage through all of her dresser drawers but find only clothes shoved in heaps, a few CD’s, the names of groups I’ve never heard of before, and in the bottom drawer, beneath an old pair of l.e.i. jeans, a battered VHS tape of Disney’s Beauty and the Beast; her favorite movie when she was young. I lift the dust ruffle of her bed but find only more dirty clothes, shoes, some socks, as well as the torn fishnet stockings she wore on her birthday a month and a half ago.

Her study desk holds two different brands of hair spray, a can of something called ‘hair wax’, and lastly, a few books and a couple of binders. I thumb through the books and binder paper looking for something that might have names or phone numbers on it. I mentally kick myself for not being a more involved mother. Why didn’t I insist on meeting all her friends? Calling their mothers? I rack my brain for names that Robyn has mentioned in the past, but besides Jenny, I come up empty. I swallow down a bolus-sized lozenge of panic and prepare to leave when, in the corner of my eye, I spy her trashcan. It is heaping to overflowing the wadded up papers, old magazines, and tissues. I drag it over to the bed and sit down, hunching over the paper sprawl.

One by one, I pull out every single paper, every note, and scan through the magazines. Near the very bottom, I find a scrunched up ruled piece of white paper. I unfold it, smoothing out the wrinkles. In the upper right hand corner is Robyn’s name, the date and below that, the word ‘Math’. On the front are numbered problems in Robyn’s handwriting. Several problems, whose solutions have been scratched out and re-figured appear on the front of the page. The last problem has nothing written next to it. I turn the paper over and see what looks to be hand written messages from two different hands, probably passed back and forth during math class. I read the messages:

“But what do you really think of her?” writes Robyn.

“Jenny thinks she’s bad because she’s rich. I think she’s a bitch.”

“She gets all the guys…”

“Yeah well, anyone can get guys if they’re willing to do nasty things… you know that!”

“ But Jenny likes me.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Come on Krista, don’t be such a bitch.”

And so on. Out of it I have a name: Krista. I take the paper and stand up, heading for the telephone. I call Jenny’s house. I first ask if there’s been any sighting of Robyn, but Jenny’s mother tells me no.

“Have you ever heard Jenny talk about a girl named Krista?” I ask.

There is silence on the line a moment and I feel my heart flip-flop in anticipation.

“No,” she finally says. “I can’t say as I’ve ever heard that name.”

I thank her for her time and then call the school. The school receptionist is particularly unhelpful when I inquire about information concerning my daughter’s math teacher. I eventually learn that his name is Mr. Thornton who is located in room 312. The receptionist asks if I would like to leave a message, but I decline the offer. I check my watch, just after noon. School gets out on Fridays at 12:45; if I hurry I can be down there before the kids get out. I look down at myself. I’m still dressed in my sweats and cruddy T-shirt from last night, but there isn’t time to change. I grab my purse and hurry out the door.

The end of the school day is a parade. Kids that look like really young versions of adults abound everywhere, laughing, running, and calling out to each other. In the parking lot, parked diagonally are two cars; souped up muscle machines with more gleaming silver than a pair of Boeing 747’s. All four doors on both vehicles are opened and a deafening hip-hop beat rolls through the air like a war cry. Young men, chests puffed out, swagger around the cars like prideful lions. Some have taken their shirts off and the oversized jeans make them look stockier than they are. Heavy chains ornament necks that will, I think, someday be burdened by even heavier broken dreams.

The hallway smells like reheated sloppy Joes, and the floor is covered by scuffmarks and spots of old chewing gum worn to the color of soot. At the end of the hall a cell phone chirps to the theme song of Winnie the Pooh and a young girl’s voice answers with the predictable, first words, ‘I’m still at school,’ fading away as I round the corner to find room 312.

Inside the classroom there is one student, a tissue thin young man with short cropped blonde hair and ears the size of potato chips stuffing books into a ragged brown backpack. At the front of the room, sitting behind the desk is whom I assume to be Mr. Thornton. He’s also thin, medium build with rakish red hair and sunken cheeks. Large, 1980’s style aviator framed glasses balance at the bridge of his nose. He stands to greet me, his movements turtle-slow.

I long to skip all the formalities, and simply rush to him, grabbing him by the lapels of his corduroy jacket, shaking loose the information I need. Instead, I swallow my anxieties and smile, holding out my hand as I approach his desk and introduce myself.

“We missed our Robyn today,” Mr. Thornton says as he shakes my hand.